Clearer
by roswellchick22
Summary: A moment between Rick and Michonne after 3x12's "Clear", which might be the beginning of something intentional between the both of them. This was directly written after the episode had aired and promptly finished after the season finale because I got inspired once again.


**Summary: **A moment or two between Rick and Michonne after "Clear" which might be the beginning of something intentional between the both of them.****

A/N: I haven't written fanfic in YEARS (like 3) so I'm a bit rusty but I definitely had plot bunnies after 3x12 "Clear" and even more so after the finale of The Walking Dead. I hope this okay, I might go back into fic hibernation after this.

**Disclaimer**: Really? I don't own these characters, simply borrowing them for this fic and then I shall return them back safely.

* * *

There was this ever changing shift between the triangle in the vehicle.

Carl, who had picked up the hitchhiker's backpack was silent through the ride back, glancing out the window now and then while picking up on the two adults in front. He wouldn't admit it but he was beginning to trust for the driver, Michonne. There was something different about her, even if he saw her as an asset to their group, but she was trustworthy. On the other hand, he glanced over at his dad who seemed to be in his own little world.

But even as a kid, he was aware of when adults were busy struggling with their inner turmoils. This was a different time, a different phase of growing up. He was more aware of what's going on, a silent observer and right now, he counted three times that he spotted his dad glancing in the direction of Michonne.

Accident the first time, sure, but the next two times? Definitely on purpose.

Michonne could feel the weight of both sets of eyes on her. It was getting darker faster, the sunset was behind them now, but they didn't have too far to go. Her eyes glanced in the rear view mirror to see that Carl had somehow fallen asleep against the window, which took care of one set. The other set however, she was almost tempted to look to her right.

"Is he asleep?"

"Yeah," it was all Michonne needed to say. And that's when she felt the first brush of contact... his hand resting on her knee. Her eyes quickly glanced down at his hand seemingly holding onto her, she could feel the heat radiating through her jeans. But now, his hand was moving upward, inching slowly. For the first time in a long time, Michonne was a bit... stunned on how to response. "Are you interested in copping a feel?"

Rick didn't say anything but chuckle, a throaty chuckle at that. "You askin' me to stop?"

The vehicle fell into silence once again, only the roaring of the engine was creating noise. It drowned out the moans and groans of the dead which were still active but not as much as in the daytime.

It felt like minutes had passed by, but in reality, only seconds before Michonne uttered the words "no" after what seemed to be an eternity. It was all he needed to hear, now that his fingers gripped her inner thigh, and Michonne's fingers gripped the wheel tightly in response. It would be much easier if the dead weren't walking, Carl wasn't in the vehicle asleep, if the world was a different place, maybe, just maybe.

The prison was just up ahead, Glenn and Maggie were on watch for their return. Getting the gates to open and close immediately behind them, Michonne had never felt so good to get out of a car in her life. The warm southern air was cooler, comforting her, but she still felt the hot sensation of Rick's fingers caressing her right leg. She felt his eyes on him and for a moment, she glanced over her shoulder, catching his gaze and broke it immediately to seek refuge in the prison.

Carl had woken up on his own, immediately joining Beth's side, seeing his baby sister asleep in her arms.

Rick was the last to enter through the prison doors, closing it shut behind him. He didn't want to appear eager but he needed to find her, find where she had ran off to. If she was hiding, he was going to find her in the vast prison. He kept his footsteps quiet, everyone had seemed to have disappeared into their own cells, their rooms. Michonne wouldn't have hidden away in her own cell, that seemed too obvious. Everyone would hear even the slightest mumble that could fall from either party's lips.

There was the kitchen, further away from the cells but not too far into the prison. His feet led the way and he simply followed the scent that he knew only one person had. And there, he found her, sitting at one of the tables, her finger was twirling around a straw that was sitting in a blue cup. Water, perhaps, was in it. There was no wine, no beer, not even fruit punch but water and milk. "So, you found me."

"I did," Rick stated, leaning against the door frame of the room, his eyes were steadily on her frame. Every slight movement she made, he caught it, and saved it in his memory. "I figured you'd want to be someplace private, someplace alone," he started walking towards her and she had yet to look up from the cup. "Someplace where no one would catch the sight of both of us together."

"I've underestimated you." Michonne finally looked up to catch sight of him. "You're a very resourceful man," it was the closest thing to a compliment he had received from Michonne so far. "And I also know that you did not come in here for small talk or the fine dining of a prison," the dark skinned woman had picked herself up from her seat to walk up to Rick, closing the distance that was between them.

Rick didn't respond back with words but his hands grasped onto her shoulders tightly, moving them down her arms and then settling on her waist. He gripped her tightly and aggressively moved them to run into the table, knocking over the cup that spilled the last of her drink.

It _was _water.

He picked her up and her legs immediately wrapped around him, holding onto him. There was passion in his eyes, a look that she hadn't seen from him outside of being "Rick, the leader" or "Rick, the sharp shooter" when it came to battle.

Michonne had let out a groan but immediately muffled by his lips finally on hers. It wasn't a perfect kiss, a bit rushed, sloppy but there was strength in his lips, strength that she needed to feel all over her skin. Over each muscle, scar, bruise, it was the time for them to show their souls bare, such a hard task for both parties.

But each minute that passed, it seemed that bits of clothings were falling from them, the moans and whispers grew, the warm atmosphere inside the prison had seemed to go up a few more degrees the moment their skins came into contact with one another.

It was a shame that they weren't alone in a secure structure; she might have screamed out his name when a third orgasm had ripped through her body.


End file.
